


imagine being loved by me

by vos



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Meeting, M/M, Tony Being Tony, tony stark birthday party™
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 15:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18854149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vos/pseuds/vos
Summary: Stephen attends Tony Stark’s birthday party and gets more than he bargained for.





	imagine being loved by me

**Author's Note:**

> title is from hozier’s “talk”, which i felt was appropriate
> 
> also i reuploaded this bc i changed accounts yoooooooo

  1. stephen



  
Officially moving into the New York Sanctum comes with its perks, most notably the easy access to coffee and the somewhat threatening presence of the population. New York’s familiar anonymity is eagerly embraced, and Stephen finds comfort in this as people reject any unfamiliar human contact, allowing him to go largely unnoticed.

It does come with tradeoffs, as the more personal, dusty, and sweltering city of Kathmandu trades for the cold, vaguely foul-smelling New York. The two are almost direct opposites, and he misses the old Sanctum sometimes. Traveling back, of course, is only a doorway away, but he limits these visits to tea runs and professional visits only—it’s not the same as living there.

Stephen reminds himself that it’s a necessary change, as New York is the place to be, with the aliens falling from the sky and all.

Being back has only highlighted how he’s changed, providing the direct comparison to his former self; he sees these same streets, plus the overlying materialistic gluttony clouded with the smog, and understands how selfish desires had ruled him, a lifetime ago.

He likes to think he’s a better man now, removed from the endless need of concrete things, the city’s cycling mindset of _want need want_ , and, speaking of:

“...You would just have to attend from nine to twelve o’clock. Three hours. You can stand in a corner and count the minutes if you have to.”

He comes back to the upscale coffee shop, to face Helen Cho, somehow looking so different and yet so similar out of a lab coat. His hand is clawed over the wide, porcelain mouth of a half-finished cup, and he sets it lightly down on the table.

He’d wanted to catch up with her again, and it is nice, but he should have known Helen had ulterior motives. Stark parties are the literal pinnacle of New York’s fascination with material wealth, held in the penthouse of the world. He’s surprised Helen had extended the invitation; he didn’t know she had such connections, but it makes sense. She is brilliant, and it has been a long time since they’ve worked together.

“It sounds… ostentatious. I hardly thought that was your crowd?” Stephen says, genuinely curious.

“Stark and I have worked together on projects before,” she says, her eyes shifting, “on a type of synthetic artificial intelligence. He’s an interesting man.”

Vague. Stephen had heard of Tony Stark before, naturally; he’d seen the footage of the wormhole, and had directly dealt with the bloody fallout in the E.R. He knew the legacy Stark was building was ambitious enough to make note of; he also, however, had seen enough shitty tabloid media to be sick of him.

Helen takes his silence as critical, as she should, and frowns at him, tapping her foot once, twice, three times on the ground. “It is a party, Stephen. Stark has friends in high places. It would be a good way to re-introduce yourself to the world.”

And, actually, that is a good point. Not that Stephen needs to re-introduce himself to the aristocracy of New York, but there are some people, Stark-related, that he would like to meet.

“Friends as in wall street titans, or friends as in the Avengers?” He tries to look only passively interested.

She, in turn, looks pleased. “Don’t tell me you’re a groupie.”

“I’m not.” He really isn’t.

“You just have a _professional_ interest in the Avengers?”

“I…” Stephen considers his options—he can’t exactly say that he likes the idea of knowing them as himself before he meets them as the sorcerer supreme. “Yes, actually.”

She laughs, tilting her head in thought. “Good. I’ll be sure to introduce you.”

“Lucky me.”

“Pick you up at eight thirty.”

    

 

  


He buys a suit an hour before the event, realizing that this was probably a bad idea. Stephen Strange doesn’t need to be known or seen in New York, and every high profile event risks the chance of drawing attention to him, the stone, and the Sanctum.

It doesn’t help that Wong keeps giving him these neutral stares that _feel_ disapproving, and it seems that every time Stephen walks past, he feels the need to mutter something about material wants into the book he isn’t reading.

For this, he strides around the corner, holding two bowties: one black, one white. “Which one do you think?”

“Strange.” It sounds like a warning, but he isn’t concerned about it; most things that come out of Wong’s mouth are either prophetic warnings or quotes from archaic texts.

“Really. I’ve spent more on takeout for you than I have on this suit.”

“Attachment to the material—“

“Is detachment from the spiritual, I _know_. I’m not doing this for me.”

Wong looks up from his book at this, which seems to be an improvement. Then he looks back down.

“Black.”

“Thank you.”

With that taken care of, Stephen is left to plan over his strategy of somehow being unremarkable and yet meeting the Avengers at the same time. He figures he’ll just play the part of Helen’s unassuming, ordinary date, and pass through the night in anonymity.

Trusting her discretion, Stephen sends her a quick text.

  


**STEPHEN**

**Do me a favor and help me keep a low profile tonight.**

**Not looking to make any impressions.**

 

  
**HELEN CHO**

**You have my back,**

**I have yours.**

  


He finds himself smiling at his phone. Helen doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t pry. It’s a good thing to have in a friend, and he can see why the Avengers prefer to keep her mind in close contact. How exactly that relationship started, he has no clue.

Stephen walks past a mirror and ends up doubling back because it’s so bizarre to see himself like this---it feels like vertigo. Aside from his cape (which stills beside him), the Eye of Agamotto and his hands are the only physical indication he has changed at all. Stephen’s index finger moves to his chest to connect the two, and absently taps the smooth, intricate surface. He meets his reflection’s eyes, illuminated by the odd antique lamplight that the hallway features, and tells himself it’s the chiaroscuro effect that makes him look troubled.

“What are you doing?”

Stephen almost jumps, before facing Wong’s critical eye. “What are you, a hall monitor?” He glances over the book in his hands. “Done rereading—what is that, Kyrneth’s second volume on... petty illusions?” He asks, just to tease.

“It’s a good read.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Tutoring this Friday,” Wong segues, mood lightening, “At the Hong Kong Sanctum. You said you would do this.”

 _Ah_. Stephen frowns. He hates teaching. “I said I might visit.”

“You have nothing better to do.”

Stephen looks at his watch. “I have… engagements, then. Important Sanctum business.” He should be putting more effort into this.

Wong, ever the immovable object, looks pointedly at his clothes.

Stephen shrugs and casts a simple spell to wink the Eye out of sight. “This is part of that business. Speaking of which, I really do have to run.” He has the decency to look apologetic as he slips on his sling ring and carves a portal out of the universe.

 

 

Helen arrives at their meeting place at 8:45—some nondescript hotel that Stephen picked. She had chosen to drive herself, which was surprising, and looked absolutely stunning, which wasn’t.

Halfway there, the moderate wind chill turns into a downpour.

“Interesting. Thor must have just arrived,” Helen says, straight-faced.

A pause. “You’re joking.”

“Yes. You never know, though.”

He laughs a little at that, and the rest of the ride is left in comfortable silence.

 

 

Stephen first starts to notice something is off when he steps into the elevator, and his vision is instantly clouded by large, puffy white feathers. They’re wings, it seems, strapped to a couple of women that follow them into the elevator, who are then followed by a famous celebrity (he isn’t sure which one) and the mayor of New York. Stephen is tall enough to dodge the arches of feathers, but poor Dr. Cho’s height starts with 5’. _Jesus. What has he just gotten himself into?_ He shoots her a suspicious look as the doors close, but silently switches places with her so she’s on the outside.

When it reaches six floors away from the penthouse, he can already hear the loud bump of bass music.

“The party encompasses the top four floors,” Helen explains, and looks sheepish. Stephen’s mood drops.

“You said this was a small party for _‘close friends’_.”

“Have faith in me.”

The doors open on what Stephen can only guess is the bottom floor of the event and it’s like he’s entered a Gatsby dream on psychedelics. In the few seconds that the doors are open and both the celebrity and girls shuffle away, Stephen spots among the sea of partygoers:

  1. two holographic tigers (illuminated silhouettes in the air)
  2. an Iron Man suit maintaining a concussively-loud DJ setup
  3. large red-gold lettering reading HAPPY BIRTHDAY TONY STARK that snows intermittent glitter



The doors close, and Stephen lowly asks, “You’ve brought me to his _birthday party_?”

She looks unapologetic. “The event of the year. It isn’t my fault you live under a rock.” To be fair, Stephen has been busy testing the limits of the time stone, but it’s not like pop culture has really ever been _his thing_ anyway.

The elevator ascends another two floors, and the doors open on a thankfully milder scene, filled with what looks like white-collar businessmen and expensive tastes. It gives the appearance of a rowdy charity ball, and the mayor steps off to his floor without comment.

The doors close again. There isn't a button for a floor higher than this.

“FRIDAY,” Helen says, “Take us to the penthouse.”

“Sure thing, Dr. Cho,” an Irish voice sounds from around them, eerily human.

“‘Friday’?”

“Tony’s A.I.”

The doors close once again and her expression looks suddenly anxious. She swallows. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“Of course.” The sling ring sits heavier in his pocket.

“The last time I went to one of Stark’s parties, there were… complications.” Her face remains expressionless.

A pause. “Do you mean—?”

Before he can finish, the doors slide open.

 

 

The decor is homier than the others, and Stephen immediately gets the feeling that he’s been invited into something more personal. The rule of the house is black tie, thankfully, and the tone of the room is easy, as the crowd breaks out into louder intermittent laughter here and there. The speakers are playing a party rendition of _Get It On. (T. Rex, 1971,_ his brain supplies.) It’s good.

The two take a breath to get the vibe of the party, cutting a striking silhouette out of the maroon backdrop. He holds out his arm to Helen, and she smiles back, pointing a finger to a denser part of people. “Host first,” she explains, taking his offer and leading the way to—ah, to Tony Stark himself.

Stephen can only catch glimpses of him, as he’s standing in the middle of a small crowd, where the participants have settled in a semi-circle—soaking him in. Stephen recognizes a face as Lt. Colonel James Rhodes ( _War Machine)_ and spots Tony’s hand clap heavily on his shoulder, as an infectious laugh starts in the group. The man, in turn, looks unimpressed, as if there had been a joke made at his expense.

“Dr. Cho! Excuse me.” It rings clear from the middle. He seems to take her arrival as an escape hatch from the group, cutting through the line of people to join them. It takes him a second because it’s a big room, and Stephen can only catch glimpses of his hair or hands behind groups of people. “Beautiful, stunning, you look amazing, how are you?”

 _Hm_ . Tony Stark looks better than he does in magazines, evidently. He seems to be caught in the pull of the party, as it were, and the charismatic hosting energy washes off of him in waves. He holds a small scotch glass with a finger under the bottom, which tips uncomfortably as he lightly sways. Stephen regards him warily; Christine’s told him before that _you and egotistical types don’t mix._ The thought of Christine is shoved away, hastily, as he prepares to play shy.

Tony kisses Helen’s cheek and registers Stephen’s presence at the same time, taking off his glasses.

“Oh, my god. _Now_ it’s my birthday. Please tell me you brought him as a friend.” Tony addresses this towards Helen. _Oh?_

Helen ignores the question. “Stephen, Tony, Tony, Stephen.”

“Excellent party,” Stephen says, disengaged.

“Oh! Helen, dear, I think Jane wanted me to look out for you, you two should really catch up. Sciency personalities and all that,” he says, like he isn’t one. “Really. Look, there’s Thor, she can’t be far behind. You go, I’ll give Stephen the tour.” He smiles, and Stephen frowns.

“I really—I don’t know,” Helen says, and her effort, as chivalrous as it is, is remarkably terrible.

“Go. I can handle this.” He nods in her direction, and she returns a concerned look—directed at the both of them—before nodding back.

As they watch her go, Stark takes a large pull from his glass. “Was that an invitation?” _God_.

“No.”

“It’s just the voice, then. Jesus, do you sound like this all the time? Or did you just bust the sexy voice out to make me feel some kinda way on my birthday?”

“Sorry,” he enunciates clearly, “For whatever it is you’re implying? Tony Stark,” (The other man angles his face towards the name) “I heard you were supposed to be better at this.” Stephen casts a glance out, already looking for any other Avenger to meet tonight.

“Oh, I can be good,” Stark purrs.

“Unbelievable.” He’ll have to be allied with this man one day? “Look, Mr. Stark—“

“Tony, please.”

“Mr. _Stark_ , I am here tonight out of a favor only. I’m really not interested.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but there’s no way you’re here out of kindness to a friend.” Stark waves a hand around, stopping to gesture vaguely at Stephen’s chest. It’s probably just coincidence that he’s basically pointing to where he usually keeps the Eye, but Stephen can’t help but step back an inch.

There’s a shred of paranoia; he can’t tell if it was supposed to be a loose, suggestive wave or if the man somehow knows who he is. “Excuse me?”

Tony’s eyes narrow, and his expression sharpens. Stephen reminds himself of the mind behind the semi-glazed expression. “No, nah, you’re like a cat in a cage. I can basically feel the hackles raising,” Stark says, “Don’t tell me—are you waiting to see someone? Meet someone? Are you just enjoying the view?”

Stephen’s hand finds the inside of a pocket, and it feels like he’s being closely scrutinized. Stark can be surprisingly… intense. He stares back, daring him to find anything. It leads him to notice, in a satisfying epiphany, that he has to angle his head down to keep eye contact.

Stark continues: “You aren’t invested in networking, you don’t seem like a groupie, and you haven’t even looked at the open bar. You’re definitely not a reporter; that, I could smell from a mile, and I have faith in Helen. Unless you’re planning to steal something, which I strongly advise against, I haven’t put it together.” Stark taps the rim of his glass, twice. “Yet.”

Stephen rolls his eyes. “Maybe it’s just you I’m not invested in.” (Which isn’t entirely true.)

“No, that can’t be it.”

Stephen scoffs. “Right, thievery is much more likely.”

“It is a nice place, I wouldn’t blame you. I should know, I built and designed it.” He smiles like they’ve become friends. “Unfortunately, the most expensive thing in this room is attached to me,” he says, tapping the small glowing device housed underneath his dress shirt. “So, unless you can find a way to take this off…”

Stephen sighs. It’s a hellish cycle. Had he been like this, before?

“What makes you think I’m not just here out of kindness for Helen?”

“Well, one, she’s a bombshell, and you let her run off alone. Two, you two don’t seem to be very close, and three, you just don’t seem like the friendly neighbor type.”

“Maybe I don’t feel the need to watch over her every move.”

“Hm, no. You definitely seem like a jealous type. I would know,” he says, conspiratorially.

“You’re making a lot of assumptions.”

“ _You_ are driving me crazy.”

“Am I.”

“Yeah. I’m guessing it’s the whole alluring, standoffish, sexy-silent vibe you’re going for.” A pause. “C’mon, you’re killing me. Give me something, here, I’m grasping at straws.”

Stephen is surprised that his mind actually considers the proposition. His moods have erratically swung on the spectrum of either continuing the effort (what is there to accomplish with Stark, anyway?) or deciding that the man is one teammate he can afford to lose. (That part of him is remarkably curious to see how Tony Stark would handle the rejection.)

However...  an ally is an ally, and he knows Iron Man’s capabilities. Stephen had come here to discreetly scout out possible allies, keyword _discreetly_ , but it seems Stark’s odd fixation had ruined that path.

Stephen narrows his eyes and decides he’ll make him work for it.

“Why should I?”

“Because you’re still here, talking to me.” The answer is readily made, as if he’s been asked the question before.

Stephen sighs and tilts his head down as if to let him in on his own conspiratorial secret. “What if I told you I _am_ here to crash your party and steal your valuables? And that Helen and I have been dating for a little over a year?”

“I’d call bullshit.”

“Would you now.”

“I looked up whether or not Helen’s involved with someone the moment you two walked in the door. JAR- um, FRIDAY keeps tabs on people. Made it easy.” He looks at a point over Stephen’s shoulder, feigning exaggerated innocence.

“Did you _look me up?_ ”

“No. I figured if you wanted me to know about you, _Stephen_ , you could be a big boy and tell me yourself.” He stares right back into the other’s eyes, who realizes that they are very close now. “Won’t you?”

The sorcerer leans back, annoyed with the game Stark has roped him into. He puts some space between them, trying to see Stark past the motormouth, and Stark sways forward, chasing the distance.

 _Fuck it._ He plucks Stark’s glass from his fingers and knocks it back in one unsteady motion, before placing in the hand of some odd art deco statue to his right. It’s very good whiskey, he realizes a little belatedly. “I am a magic… sorcerer, in possession of a sentient cape and a necklace that controls time.”

Stark squints, quickly, before making a noise of defeat, signaling someone across the room for a new glass. Stephen relaxes a small fraction. “Be careful saying things like that around here.” To punctuate his point, he nods to actual demigod Thor currently doing slight lightning tricks across the room.

“You’ve made a lot of assumptions about me tonight.”

“Mmm. Can you blame me?”

 _Yes,_ Stephen thinks. “And what about you?”

“Everything you need to know about me is on Wikipedia, I’m afraid. Tsk. No privacy these days.”

“What about the things that aren’t?”

Stark’s smile returns and accepts a new glass from a nameless face. “I’m not up for a press conference right now, thank you, you can take it up with my CEO—” He stops, abruptly.

“Ms. Potts _,_ wasn’t it?” Stephen finishes for him.

“Yes, that’s the one. FRIDAY, mix up the playlist, Thor’s starting to get rowdy.”

“I figured there was some reason why you’ve fixated on me.”

“Oh, boring news.” There’s an edge to it.

“Seemed important. I think it was in the Sunday paper.”

“Made an impression?” He’s taking longer sips from the glass, now.

“I have an eidetic memory.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Of course you do. Everybody’s gotta know SI’s shitty reality TV politics.”

“Look, Stark---”

“It’s _Tony_. I---Okay. I admit I’m coming off a little strong here.” Stephen frowns a little deeper. “Okay! I acknowledged it. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s been a while since I’ve done… this. Since I’ve wanted to. And I know I’m making a pretty bad first impression, but---can we just start over? I’ll get you a drink.” He holds his hands up in a placating gesture, and Stephen imagines where the repulsors would be if he had the suit on.

For the first time tonight, he can see a scrap of something genuine from Stark---or, at least, he’s doing a good job of appearing vulnerable. His expression is still a little glazed over, sure, but it’s the first time Stephen notices him---sees him. The dark of his eyes, his hair, where his mouth is still slightly open, because he’s always talking, isn’t he? Stephen notices the dark of his eyelashes before taking a step back for the second time tonight, and it’s like surfacing from a lake.

Okay, so Stark is attractive. Nothing he didn’t know before. But now, he can see the openness of his expression and the slant of his jaw and the quirk of his lips and it hits Stephen like a train he’d been staring down the entire time.

“One drink,” his mouth says, and fuck, it really has been a while for him, too, hasn’t it?

“One drink,” Repeats Stark, and he leaves for a moment, slipping back through the crowd as it parts for him. He can feel the absence of the great space Stark took up by existing, and it’s like he’s jumped into a pool, or turned away from the sun. _Wong may actually have a point about auras,_ a part of his mind supplies, which is quickly dismissed.

Stephen wasn’t planning on this. He remembers Helen, and makes eye contact with her a second later, on a balcony of some sorts that overlooks the party. She’s accompanied by a brunette woman he assumes is Jane, and Stephen raises his eyebrows as if to ask, _“Doing okay?”_

She nods back, smiling, in her calm way, and Stephen feels at ease, left once again to himself to ponder his own insane choices tonight.

He spots a blur of Stark over by the bar and sees the contemplative expression on the bartender’s face---who appears, in fact, to be Natasha Romanoff. _Hm_. She looks up while pouring a drink as if she knows he’s watching, and they lock eyes for a second before she hands the drink off to Stark.

It’s odd, to wonder at how out-of-place Stephen feels, now, when before banquet halls and charity balls were his normal. And Stark---well. He has to admit, he hadn’t encountered someone like him before, either.

Speaking of which.

Stark weaves out of the crowd, finally, two glasses and a bottle in his hand. “Steal anything while I was gone?” He says, raising his eyebrows.

Stephen just shakes his head in mock exasperation, and it wasn’t an entirely negative gesture, which was odd.

“That’s a shame. That painting right there has a net worth of more than most people.” Stark sighs, and gestures to an outdoor balcony, “After you.”

 

-

Surprisingly enough, it’s not as cold on top of New York as he would’ve expected, and Stephen would make a comment, except for the fact that he knows Stark had probably designed the building to keep the windchill out of this particular balcony, and there’s no way he’d admit to admiring it.

Stark looks at him and smiles, like he knows what he’s thinking, and pours his glass for him. Stephen takes it, suddenly thankful for the low lighting that disguises the scars on his hands.

“This seems like bad hosting, Stark,” Stephen says, hyper-aware of just the two of them, removed from the crowds, only accompanied by the bass line filtering through the door. “It seems like I did steal something from your party.”

“Oh, they won’t miss me,” He explains, refilling his own glass. “The first two floors are only publicity, anyway. It’s an event, now, people expect the rowdy party, and the businessmen expect their shares.” He frowns, faintly, and Stephen can see it illuminated by the city, and barely illuminated by the light under his shirt, and he finds himself leaning closer, wanting to see the other’s expressions, the slight puffs of air that leave his mouth.

Stephen takes a pull from his glass to fight the cold, and it works immediately.

“Alright, alright alright, no more evasions.” Stark looks at him seriously, waving a hand. Stephen leans on the railing overlooking the city, looking back at Stark, at the lights reflected in his eyes. “I mean it. No more of that mysterious hot whatever you have going on. Tell me about you.” It comes out vaguely awkward, and Stephen is once again hit by the pang of sincerity; this doesn’t seem to be a part of his routine.

“I was a doctor,” Stephen says, without thinking, “But I’m on a sort of… vacation, now.” He finishes his glass and refills it himself. Liquid courage? For what?

Stark’s reaction is immediate. “Of course. Friends with Cho. You must be incredible.”

“Quite,” Stephen smiles and attempts a quick segue. “You as well,” He says, deliberately, “Driving the technology of a nation.” He doesn’t bother looking around the tower, and instead keeps his eyes on Stark. It’s a much better view, anyways, he can admit that.

“Oh, this old thing,” Stark laughs, his hand coming to rest upon the rail, the tips of his fingers brushing Stephen’s sleeve. It could be an accident. “Don’t tell me you were a groupie, after all this time? Because, I have to say, you’re playing the hard-to-get role like a pro.”

Stephen shakes off the comment, surprisingly unbothered. “My interests in your tech are purely _research-based_ , of course.” And he didn’t mean for it to sound like flirting, except it did, because he really did have a scientific interest in the arc reactor. (From a medical basis, of course, but he didn’t think he’d ever _vocalize_ it.)

Stephen drops his eyes to the light affixed to his chest, feeling vaguely ridiculous, and risks a glance back up to Stark, which was a mistake. He’s staring at him like he’s Christmas morning, the contrast of his face made handsome by the city, and it’s such a fitting symbolism.

Stark finishes his drink in a fluid motion and sets the glass upon the balcony, hands immediately coming to his neck, undoing his bowtie, his precise fingers made clumsy by the effects of the alcohol. Stephen possesses the awareness to be vaguely alarmed, but mostly curious.

“Sweetheart, if you wanted to see it, all you had to do was ask,” Stark smiles again, and it really is _medical curiosity_ , Stephen tells himself, that keeps his eyes fixed to the way he’s undoing the buttons of his dress shirt. “You’re getting all the front-seat privileges tonight,” he says, and the taller man risks another look back up, to where Stark’s head is tilted lazily to the side. There’s an amused, open smile controlling his features, and it isn’t fair, compared to how high-strung Stephen suddenly feels.

“You’re ridiculous,” Stephen says and thinks.

“It’s my birthday,” Stark replies, pulling the top of his shirt apart to expose the light, and there it is.

It isn’t housed in his chest, Stephen immediately notices, but on top of it. He can see the previous arc reactor’s scars on that are left, faintly bisecting his sternum, placed perfectly center. His hand moves to trace the metal and the tissue surrounding it---places where the scars take on a different look.

“Infected?” He thinks aloud.

“Palladium. Not fun business, but it’s in the past, and I’m all shiny and new now.” And that’s something, he thinks, and Stephen jerks his head up to ask how, what, why, and meets his face inches apart, and loses his questions entirely.

And considers other things instead.

Like what kissing Stark would be like, how he would taste.

Or how warm he still feels, under his hand.

Stephen eyes Stark’s open invitation and feels the weight of the sun.

“Still ridiculous?” Stark asks, because he always seems to know what he’s thinking.

“Happy Birthday, Tony,” Stephen sighs, and he has the wits to feel indignant before kissing him, because fucking Christ, did he just get seduced by Tony Stark?

But then, oh, he leans in and there isn’t a shred of smugness that he sees in Tony, it’s all want and it’s reflected in him, too, he knows that, as he slots their mouths together and takes advantage of Tony’s parted lips. Stephen’s surprised by his own fierceness as he pushes Tony against the building’s wall, using the overwhelming annoyance and pride that he’s feeling to shove his tongue into Tony’s mouth, who has the nerve to moan, loudly, his form melting against Stephen as the taller man confines him to the metal.

The kiss is more than a little messy (mostly Tony), and it’s loud (again, Tony), and Stephen’s hand cradles Tony’s jaw, tilting his head for a better angle, and yes, it is so fucking good. Tony is holding on to Stephen wherever he can, damn his wandering hands, which touch his hair, his belt, and untuck his shirt to slide under and feel his skin. He shivers a little at that, because Tony’s hands are fucking cold, and Tony just takes Stephen’s momentary surprise to go on the offense, pushing back and mouthing and sucking wetly down the side of Stephen’s face, his jaw, his neck.

 _Unfair,_ Stephen thinks, vaguely, but lets out an embarrassing noise when Tony sucks into a point just above his collarbone, and so Tony does it again, and again, until Stephen pushes back, still vaguely upset that he’s giving in to exactly what Tony wanted.

Whatever. Stephen slips his mouth over Tony’s, again, and it’s so good, it may be driving him a little bit crazy, if his rough bites along Tony’s lip are anything to go by. Stephen’s hands find their way into Tony’s hair and pull, and Tony, predictably, lets out a loud noise that turns into a moan when Stephen finds his pulse point with his mouth.

Letting Tony’s mouth free to talk is either an excellent or a terrible, terrible thing, as the constant stream of “Oh, oh fuck, Stephen, yes, baby, come on, _ah---fuck_ , _”_ is definitely enough to drive him crazy, and Tony is such a fucking demanding asshole, really. Stephen will be prideful about this later, maybe, but right now, he’s focusing on kissing any part of Tony available to him---

\---when the door opens.

He steps away from Tony to see Helen, stunned and looking at them with wide eyes, and he knows exactly how this looks, he isn’t going to try and deny it.

Tony, enunciates something close to: “Evening, doctor. You’re kind of interrupting something.” like a sixteen-year-old caught drinking, which is so stupid and Stephen isn’t going to let himself think is funny, and he definitely isn’t going to let himself look back at Tony, because _what the fuck was that?_

(He looks back anyways. Tony’s still leaning against the wall, looking like he’ll collapse if he moves. His mouth is red and his neck is already showing signs of bruising. Stephen suspects he doesn’t look that much better.)

He clears his throat, tucks his shirt in with a deft move, avoiding Helen’s still shocked expression, and nods to Tony.

“Happy birthday,” He says, and his voice is an octave lower, “I should, um. Helen. Are you ready to leave?” And he feels kind of bad, but he also really just needs to leave, right now.

He doesn’t wait for her response and leaves Tony like that, one last look of him, under the moonlight and above the city, shirt open, looking like he’d just emerged from an orgy. “Goodnight, Tony,” Stephen says, his voice a white-hot wire, and leaves the balcony.

 

**Author's Note:**

> hey dudes !!!! this might be multi chaptered ??? leave a comment maybe ??????(???)


End file.
